Thank you all for comments, follows and favorites! It means a lot to me!
NOTICE; I have been re-editing this! Only minor problems have been changed! I have NOT changed anything plot related! If you've read this before, sorry for any confusion!
Disclaimer; Everything belongs to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and the BBC or Arthur Conan Doyle.
As the detective and the doctor walked through Scotland Yard they could hear DI Greg Lestrade talking loudly down the hall.
Sherlock sighed. This is what he missed, what he itched for. But in a way, he felt he wasn't fully here. Like he had left the most important part of himself at home without bothering to get it.
"Ah, Sherlock! There you are! Come in. I need you." Lestrade called them into the room at the end of the hallway.
Sherlock stood in the doorway, feeling somewhere between wanting to go home and wanting to stay here and work like normal. Mostly, he just wanted his sight back.
"You...summoned me?" he asked.
Lestrade nodded.
"Yeah. We...I...needed you." he correct himself.
"Yes, I gathered. John said this was a matter of importance?"
Lestrade cleared his throat.
"Yeah. Well...it involves the bomb house. I thought you would be interested..."
Sherlock's eyebrow raised, a small grin on the corners of his mouth.
"You thought correctly." he sat down in a nearby chair, hands underneath his chin.
"What have we got?"
"Our previous owner has finally surfaced."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. This was interesting.
"Name?"
Lestrade pulled out some files and handed them to John.
"Name's Agatha Garret. Age 57, widowed, two children, wasn't a very wealthy woman-"
"Apparently not. Did you see where she lived?" John asked.
Lestrade rolled his eyes.
"Died of natural causes three years ago. House had been empty ever since."
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Obviously not. Those pictures on the wall were put up within that week. Someone had to have been there."
Lestrade sighed.
"It could be anybody. Children sneaking in, gang house, drug house-"
"Okay, I'm not a cop or a druggie, but I don't think that gangs tend to leave pictures of instruments and foliage on their hideout walls." John interrupted.
Sherlock stared blankly.
"I think John is right. There isn't any gang activity in that area anyway. Children would leave things behind. I think we are dealing with something else entirely."
Lestrade raised an eyebrow.
"Like what? Is this our pips bomber?"
Sherlock pushed his brows together and licked his lips.
"I don't know."
John noticed Sherlock stiffen at the reminder of Moriarty at work.
"You said you called us here for new clues in the pictures?" he asked, trying to change the subject.
Lestrade nodded, pushing an evidence bag across his desk, hitting Sherlock's elbow.
"We did all the tests we could on these. Found some fingerprints on some of 'em. We've been Trying to find a match."
Sherlock picked up the bag and felt around for the pictures inside. Some were tattered and
warped from the heat and proximity of the explosion.
"Any luck, then?"
Lestrade sighed.
"Not yet...but I was wondering what you thought of the photos themselves."
Sherlock shrugged.
"Some are simple camera film photos, some of the pictures taken off of the Internet and printed onto photo style paper. I don't know what the order or the meaning of them yet."
"You remember what they look like, right? Do you need me to describe them to you?"
"No. I remember. Mostly. What else have you found concerning the-"
"Sir, have we got those files from the bridge crash case yet?" a slightly nasally voice asked from the door. "Wait, when did he get here?"
Ah, the voice of Anderson. Annoying, idiotic Anderson. At least Sherlock couldn't see his face.
Maybe this blind thing wasn't so bad after all.
"I thought you were recovering from an explosion?" Anderson asked sharply.
Sherlock smiled innocently, just to get on Anderson's nerves.
"Yes. Yes I was."
"Than why are you here? We are working!"
"As am I. Lestrade needed me."
"Couldn't he just text you on your precious phone?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes as he looked up at Anderson, acting as if he could see, hiding his cane behind his chair as he stood.
"Something is terribly wrong with my phone. Screens gone black. Can't see a thing."
Anderson sneered.
"Then get a different phone! You always ask for others anyway!"
Sherlock laughed lightly.
"Wouldn't help me much."
"What, are you blind or something? Where have you been all week? I swear...You're useless!"
John held onto Sherlock's arm to restrain him.
"Don't, Sherlock."
Sherlock sneered. He gripped his walking cane with all his strength, trying his best not to take a blind blow at Anderson. He didn't need his sight to punch Anderson's ugly oversized jaw. His breathing gave his position away anyway.
Finally, he relaxed some.
"You are not worth my time. John?"
He turned and scowled in the direction of Anderson's voice, putting his cane in front of him and grabbing John by the arm and dragging him along.
Sally Donovan raised an eyebrow at the sight of the cane as she walked past.
"Since when has freak needed a cane?"
Lestrade rolled his eyes and put his head in his hands.
"Since he's gone blind."
Donovan laughed.
"The freak? Blind? C'mon. How do you know he's not faking it? He is crazy after all."
Lestrade shook his head.
"He got caught in the downtown explosion. Hit him right in the face. He is truly blind."
"And how long has he been that way?" Anderson asked snidely, uninterested.
"The explosion happened a week ago."
"Has he learned to read braille yet?" Donovan asked sharply, mockingly.
Lestrade put his hands on the table, causing both Donovan and Anderson to jump.
"Look. Blind man or not, Sherlock Holmes is the best detective I know. Better than you lot half the time. You insult him one more time and you will pay for it. With your job. Y'got that?"
Both Anderson and Donovan were taken aback by his scolding.
"Yes, sir." they said in unison.
Lestrade sighed and sat back down in his chair.
"What are y'doing standing around here for? Get back to work!"
Sherlock stomped down the street, tugging John behind him in case of cars.
"Sherlock, slow down!" John shouted as he pulled Sherlock out of the way of a crazed taxi.
"Where are we?" Sherlock asked, turning around as if to look at his surroundings. Every concrete sidewalk felt the same with this stupid stick, mind the bumps on the edge of the street indicating moving traffic.
"Two streets away from the flat." John answered patiently.
"Name, John! Street name! You're useless!" he repeated Anderson's words of hate to his friend and almost immediately regretted them.
John (who knew better than to be insulted) shook his head and led him down the street. Sherlock couldn't do anything in this flustered state.
"Quit saying things because you're cross. C'mon."
John led Sherlock this time and the two of them finally made it to the flat.
Sherlock stumbled up the stairs and went to his room, slamming the door loudly behind him.
John sighed and tidied the room so Sherlock wouldn't trip. He could feel a 'Pacing Rant' coming on. Surprisingly, for the first time ever, the flat was mostly clean. And, just as expected, Sherlock emerged from his bedroom dressed in dirty night clothes.
"Is there anything in front of me?" he asked, throwing his cane down.
John sighed.
"It would be easier to tell if you actually used the cane instead of abuse it."
Sherlock shook his head and walked six feet forward before turning back and walking the same six feet again.
"I don't need it. I need to think."
John rolled his eyes.
"Have you started taking your medication?"
Sherlock growled.
"No."
John sighed.
"Sherlock...you need to take your pills. It will help with your headaches-"
"Help? I get headaches all the time! Why do I need help? I'm not-"
"Handicapped? Sherlock, you can't see."
"You think I don't realize that?"
"Sherlock, I'm only trying to help."
"Just leave me alone."
Sherlock gave up his pacing and settled for laying on the couch.
He closed his eyelids and put his hands under his chin. This. Now this was normal. This would be exactly what he would be doing if he could see. This is how he saw his world; with closed eyes.
This was time to think. Time to work.
Why would someone bomb an abandoned house? Who would enter an empty house and use it as their work space? What were those pictures? He could see them in his mind.
Why were they in pairs? The eyes, the violins, the sunflowers...
Who was the woman? Was she important? Was she the intended victim? The previous owner? The bomber themselves?
Why all the London landmarks? What did they mean?
No answer came. He was too distracted. He knew that this darkness would bind him even with open eyes.
He flipped over on his side and turned away from John, who was sitting in his chair, blogging.
He could hear the words being typed on the keyboard;
Sherlock, though rather irritable with his condition, was making an effort to solve his case. He seems so unbreakable at all times it was strange to see him so distraught-
"I am not distraught." Sherlock mumbled into the pillow.
Johns typing stopped, eyebrow raised in wonder. How did he know what he was typing?
"You...how do...?"
Sherlock scoffed.
"I've listen to you blog for hours on end. Your typing is so loud I am surprised Mrs. Hudson doesn't know what you're blogging about."
John sighed and shut his laptop.
"Alright. That's It. I'm getting ready for bed."
He stood and exited, leaving Sherlock alone to pout and complain to himself.
But then the footsteps walked back into the room.
"Y'know, I try, Sherlock. I try to help you. Why you choose to push me farther away rather than accept my help-"
"I don't want help."
"-But you need it! That's what I'm talking about! You are so stubborn! I don't understand you!"
John stormed out again muttering under his breath.
Sherlock mumbled something angrily.
John walked back into the room.
"What was that?"
Sherlock closed his eyes.
"Nothing."
John rolled his eyes and went upstairs and immediately sank into his bed without bothering to change clothes, hands covering his eyes. He covered himself with blankets and waited for sleep to overtake him but it never came. He was too busy worrying about Sherlock. Ugh...why did he have to be such a worrywart? He was ANGRY with Sherlock! Sherlock was being unbelievably stubborn and insulting. Why was he so worried about him? A little voice answered his question as he turned in his bed;
Because he cared.
Sherlock tossed and turned in his bed that night, he too unable to sleep. He hated sleep anyway. Even more now than he did before. He pulled the covers over his head and flopped back and forth like a fish out of water, legs kicking and fighting the sheets. He opened his eyes to find that the darkness was no different with his lids closed. UGH! He HATED this! Why wouldn't it just GO AWAY? And then he gasped as pain suddenly started to creep up his left eye and sit right behind it. He struggled on with his sheets as the pain grew at an alarming rate, and within a matter of minutes became excruciating. But he didn't want medicine. He didn't want anything to do with those tablets that John brought home. He just wanted this to end. He wanted his sight back. He stopped tossing in his bed when his stomach started churning, doing back flips in protest to movement. Great, now he was nauseous. It was definitely a migraine now. He DESPISED being nauseous. It was the worst feeling in the world. No, sensory deprivation was the worst feeling. But nausea was a close second. Unable to hold himself back, he gagged. Nothing else happened. He willed his stomach to stop trying to rid itself of acid and he sat back, hands over his eyes, putting pressure on his eyelids. He sat and waited for the pain to leave or subside or...anything. He just wanted this feeling–this empty, useless feeling–to go away.
Neither he nor John got any sleep that night.
John tiptoed downstairs the next morning, holding his breath and making no noise, hoping that Sherlock had somehow managed to fall asleep the previous night. But then he entered he saw Sherlock standing with his violin in his hands, feeling of the strings, plucking them like a ukulele to check if they were in tune. He put it against his shoulder as if he were going to play when his fingers froze as if he had suddenly forgotten how to. He threw the bow down with a clatter and put the violin back in the open case.
"You OK?"
Sherlock jumped slightly, looking around.
"John?"
John raised an eyebrow. He had forgotten his stealthy entrance.
"I thought you might have heard me."
Sherlock shook his head, shutting his violin case.
"I was busy."
John swallowed, grabbing his military mug from the coffee table.
"Yeah. I can see that."
Sherlock straightened his suit jacket and carefully sat in John's favorite chair, legs underneath him, perched like a bird on the seat, arms crossed. Gosh. Did he ever sit normally in a chair?
John walked into the kitchen to clean out his mug and put on the coffee maker (he needed something to help him stay awake), only to find that Sherlock's pain pills not been touched. John rolled his eyes and put them in the cabinet when he got his vitamins out. He swallowed his daily iron pill and brushed his teeth while he waited for the coffee to brew.
When he reentered he found Sherlock had been as still as a statue in his absence. But when he heard John's breathing enter the room he relaxed. He was acting as if he couldn't properly function without John.
John stood when the coffee maker went off. He stayed in the kitchen for a moment to test his hypothesis. Sherlock ceased moving and sat silently from the moment John stood. Huh. Why was he acting so strangely?
John walked back into the living room and Sherlock sighed.
"You alright?" John asked, handing Sherlock a mug. Black, two sugars.
Sherlock took the mug and held it with both hands, trying to warm his freezing fingers.
"I'm fine. Thanks."
John raised an eyebrow in disbelief and opened today's paper.
(Explosion in downtown London caused by gas leak)
What was assumed to be the hit of yet another terrorist bombing is revealed to be a gas leak caused by the apartment stove-
John rolled his eyes. What a bunch of crap. At least Lestrade had gotten press off of their backs.
Sherlock sipped his coffee and cleared his throat.
"Are you working today?"
John looked up.
"Hmmm? Oh, no. I've got the next few days off. Why?"
Sherlock smiled.
"Because I need you."
Sherlock stood and felt around to make his way to the kitchen table.
John sighed.
"Why don't you use your cane? They wouldn't give it to you if they didn't want you to use it."
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Can you help me with something?"
John raised an eyebrow. Sherlock Holmes ask for help? Pigs definitely must be flying somewhere.
"Yeah. What do you need?" he stood and made his way to the kitchen.
"YOU. I need you to look at something for me."
John cleared his throat.
"Um, Ok. Yeah...what would that be?"
Sherlock felt around the table for the evidence bag.
"Tell me exactly what you see."
John looked down. He saw the pictures. The bomb house pictures, the ones he dreamt about the other day. But he knew Sherlock wanted more than that.
"Um...There is a eye. A woman's eye by the looks of it. It's brown-"
"Hazel." Sherlock corrected.
John scratched his ear.
"Um...Ok. Hazel. Um...there's a picture of a building. The billboard is a bit warped so I don't know what it says-"
"'London Gem theatre.'"
"Uh...Alright. There are two different violins. Dark brown wood, probably-"
"1950's Stradivarius violin, maple, amber varnish."
"Are you sure you need me? Because it seems like you've got it covered."
Sherlock smiled.
"Just...maximizing my visual memory."
John nodded.
"Um...sunflowers? A vase of sunflowers. Very Van Gogh. Actually...very, VERY Van Gogh-"
"It IS Van Gogh."
"Alright. And then some real sunflowers. Looks like it could be taken from someone's back yard."
Sherlock sighed.
"Hmmm...probable."
John shrugged.
"That's all I've got. The rest were lost in the explosion."
Sherlock nodded, resting his elbows on the table.
"Yes. Well...thank you."
"Um...no problem."
Sherlock's eyes slipped closed and he rested his head in his hands.
"Get my phone for me please." he mumbled into his hands.
John looked around the room for the device.
"Where is it?"
Sherlock pointed.
"In my coat pocket."
John stood and retrieved it, opening the lock screen and going directly to messaging.
6 new messages, 6 new e-mails, 8 missed calls, 4 new voicemails from; Mycroft Holmes
"Geez Louise, your brother has tried to contact you for an hour!"
Sherlock sank deeper into his hands.
"Don't worry about that now. I need you to text Lestrade for me. Tell him-"
"Wait, hold on. Gotta find your contacts."
"Well, hurry up!"
"I'm trying!"
Sherlock's head snapped up.
"Hurry faster."
John rolled his eyes.
"Alright. What do you want me to text?"
Sherlock sat back in his chair, hands folded under his chin in his thinking prayer pose.
"Ask him who is in forensics on the bomb house case. I need to know who I'm working with."
John raised an eyebrow.
"OK...?"
New Message
To; DI Lestrade
[Who is on forensics on the bomb house case? -SH]
Two messages replied.
[Anderson. Sorry.]
"Anderson." John said aloud. Sherlock growled as John read the second message to himself silently.
[Why? Is he planning on coming down here?]
Lestrade must know it was John typing then.
[I don't know. Maybe. -SH]
[He and Donovan will be on their best behaviour. We need Sherlock here.]
"He said he will make sure they won't bother you."
Sherlock sighed.
"They bother me no matter what. Let's go."
John smiled and went back to the phone.
[He's on his way. -SH.]
[Thank you.]
The rain had started to pour as they drove in the back of the taxi. John watched it fall in streams on the window while Sherlock stared into the empty space.
John sighed and pulled Sherlock's phone out of the pocket of his jeans, checking the texts and e-mails from his brother.
[John, make him answer his phone. -MH]
[John? -MH]
[Surely he has given you his phone by now? -MH]
[My patience is wearing thin, Sherlock. -MH]
[Answer your bloody phone. -MH]
[You cannot simply ignore me. -MH]
[John, please pick up. I need to speak to my brother. -MH]
E-Mails are exactly the same as the texts. John went to his voicemails.
'Hello Sherlock. Please answer your phone.'
'John, if you get this can you please hand the phone to my brother. He is being annoyingly stubborn.'
'Sherlock, I know you are there. Pick! Up!'
'Sherlock Holmes, answer your bloody phone!"
John held back a laugh at the last one. Hearing Mycroft use Sherlock's full name was quite amusing. He acted like he was his mother rather than his brother.
"You may want to call Mycroft while you can. He seems to be very angry."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
"What, the messages? Oh, that is not angry. You've not seen him properly angry."
"He sounded very angry."
"Not angry."
John rolled his eyes and found the reply button.
[Will call back soon. He is in a good mood right now. -SH]
He got an instant reply.
[Well, I would not want spoil that. Call when you have free time. Thank you, John.
-Mycroft Holmes]
They exited the cab and entered Scotland Yard, John leading Sherlock by the hand at a run to escape the pouring rain. John notice Sherlock's pale cheeks were a slight pink. This whole situation must be so embarrassing for him. John quickly let go of his arm and wiped the rain from his coat.
"Let's go, eh?" he suggested as he walked down the hall where Lestrade was waiting.
Sherlock nodded and shook some of the water out of his curls, his face still tomato red.
When they found Lestrade, they could see he was in a good mood as well.
"Sherlock? You made it! Alright, someone get him a chair! I need your advice on-"
"I'd rather stand."
"-What?"
"I said I don't want the chair. I would rather stand."
John cleared his throat.
"By stand I think he means pace."
Lestrade raised an eyebrow.
"Oh. Well...alright."
He began moving chairs and scooting his desk somewhat to the side, giving Sherlock a wider strip of runway to walk.
Sherlock smiled in his general direction and felt around for the open space. He began walking back and forth in that spot, cane thrown into John's hands.
"Any new leads or thoughts on those pictures? Anything you have would help." Lestrade asked.
Sherlock folded his hands under his chin as he paced. He nodded.
"Yes. I think whoever put them there was comparing something."
John raised an eyebrow.
"How can you possibly compare identical eyes and London landmarks?"
Sherlock shrugged.
"I don't know. But the landmark pictures...I had seen them before somewhere."
John raised an eyebrow.
"What? Where?
Sherlock pulled at his curls.
"The Internet. Somewhere. I don't remember-"
"YOU don't remember?" John asked.
Sherlock pounded a fist full of his own curls against his head.
"Yes, John. I don't remember. I can't visualize it clearly enough. It was not important at the time. I deleted it. Some useless website you were looking at-"
"I was looking at them?"
"Yes, but I don't remember why. I deleted that too."
John shrugged.
"Well, I don't remember seeing them before in my life."
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Of course not."
Lestrade raised an eyebrow.
"Hold up-you've seen them before?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes again, pressing his palms against his face as he paced, faster now.
"I believe I just said that."
John sighed, eying the way he rubbed his eyes.
"You didn't take your medicine today, did you?"
Sherlock scoffed.
"You picked up the bottle. You saw it was unopened and yet you still refuse to see the obvious."
John rolled his eyes.
"Have you got any Paracetamol?" he asked Lestrade.
Lestrade opened a drawer on his desk and handed a bottle to John, the pills rattling as it flew I the air and landed in John's hands.
"I'm fine, John." Sherlock refused the fistful of pills John handed his way.
John sighed.
"I can't have you throwing up on everything."
"Throwing up?" Lestrade asked.
"No!" Sherlock insisted.
"He's had sporadic migraines. I told him to take his medicine and he ignored me and he got sick last night."
Sherlock cursed under his breath and took the tablets in defeat. He sighed.
"The pictures were on a website I saw sometime last month. A week or two before I lost my...before the incident. I don't remember where and I don't remember what site it was. Something John was looking at. I would go through the internet history but I have used his computer by then and deleted the history. Didn't think John would appreciate pictures of ruptured organs on his home page."
John swallowed.
"Yeah. Thanks mate."
Lestrade raised an eyebrow.
"Alright. I'll give you time to remember. Umm...Anderson has been busy working on those fingerprints. He also found a bit of pollen if that helps with some sort of deduction of yours."
Sherlock's blind eyes widened.
"What kind of pollen?"
Lestrade bit his lip.
"I'm not sure. I'll ask him."
He leaned over and pressed a button on his desk phone.
"Anderson! Front and center!"
78 paces later, footsteps approached the door.
"Sorry sir. I was bust working on-...Oh no."
Sherlock continued to pace, using his lack of vision to his advantage and not bothering to notice Anderson's presence.
"What is he doing here?" Anderson whined.
"I called him in. Do you have a problem with that?" Lestrade asked.
Anderson sneered, pushing his reading glasses further up onto his crooked nose.
"No."
"Good. Now he had a question about the pollen that you found on those pictures."
Sherlock sighed, forcing himself to stop pacing and face Anderson's direction. He planned on asking as nicely as possible.
"To tell you the truth, I must first congratulate you! You found something useful! But, then again, you are very used to seeing dust. Like the dust on your treadmill. Gained five pounds by the sound of it. Footsteps are a bit heavier than normal. How's the wife by the way?"
Anderson rolled his eyes and turned to Lestrade.
"Can't you make him go on medical leave? Working is a lot easier without him here!"
Lestrade shook his head.
"Sherlock...mind your manners. Anderson...what kind of pollen did you find?"
Anderson crossed his arms.
"Dandelion and grass pollen."
Sherlock nodded.
"That narrows it down a bit."
John raised an eyebrow.
"How?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes and began pacing again, faster.
"Dandelions are wild. For them to be in the yard indicated either bad gardeners or vacancy of the homeowner. The house would have to be vacant for at least three days if not more."
Anderson rolled his eyes.
"An abandoned house? Like the one the pictures were found in?"
Sherlock growled.
"No. Too obvious. Besides, no dandelions on that lawn or anywhere around that house. The landkeeper made sure of that. Now please stop being so revolting. I am extremely ill and you are making me nauseous."
John cleared his throat.
"Sherlock, why don't you sit down?" he suggested.
Sherlock shook his head.
"It was a figure of speech, John. Any luck on the fingerprints?"
Anderson cleared his throat.
"Not yet. Still searching for that."
Lestrade nodded.
"Yes. Well...back to work. I want some of those papers in by midnight!"
Anderson nodded and left, but not before Sherlock sneered at him.
Lestrade sighed.
"Alright. Well...I don't have anything else for you. You're welcome to stay and work here if you want-"
"No thank you. I need to think."
"Alright. Fine with me. I'll call you in when I need you."
"Yes. Alright. Thank you."
Within minutes upon their arrival at the flat, Sherlock was lying on the couch with three nicotine patches in his left arm while John was on the phone with Mycroft.
"What did he want?" Sherlock asked bitterly after John hung up.
John sighed and put the phone down.
"Don't get angry with me, he's dropping by to deliver some paper."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
"Why?"
"Because the week is over, Sherlock. My decision has been made."
The elder Holmes brother stood in the doorway, umbrella at his side, a folder in his hands.
"How are you, John?" Mycroft shook his hand.
John cleared his throat.
"Ahem...fine. And...yourself?"
Mycroft smiled.
"Busy as always, dear John, but content none the less. Now, Sherlock-"
"Why must you insist on bothering me when I am working, Mycroft?" Sherlock muttered.
Mycroft glanced at Sherlock.
"Hmmm. Another three patch problem, I see."
"Yes, and you've cheated on your diet. Thank you for stating the obvious."
"What are you doing here?" Sherlock spat.
Mycroft smiled.
"Only dropping off some papers."
"Papers? Files? Cases? Please try and be more specific as I cannot read them myself."
Mycroft looked over at John.
"Actually, if all goes to plan, you can."
Sherlock thought it over and quickly made a deduction.
"I'm not learning it."
"It is this or therapy. Or medicine. Or rehabilitation, but you wouldn't want to go back there, now would you?"
John raised an eyebrow.
"'Back there'?"
The Holmes brothers ignore him.
"It is ridiculous! I am not wasting precious time trying to learn Braille when I have a case that needs my attention!"
Mycroft swallowed.
"Think about it. If you do not start the program in the next three days I will put you in rehab and call mother. So I suggest you get started. Soon." he turned to John and his attitude completely changed from dark and demanding to light and friendly. "Goodbye, John. Goodbye, brother. Get well."
Mycroft shut the door behind him.
Sherlock growled and put his hands over his eyes.
"Never let him in this flat again."
John picked up the papers from the coffee table, examining them.
"What are they exactly?" Sherlock asked as he could not see them.
John shrugged.
"They're blank right now."
Or at least most of them were. Two or three had names of websites and people written in Mycroft's posh government handwriting. One was a note to John in the same writing;
"I doubt he will have any interest in learning. I am terribly sorry for any trouble you may have. Call me if he gets out of hand.
-Mycroft Holmes."
But John was not going to read these things to him.
His stomach growled. He was beginning to feel peckish.
"You hungry? I could whip up some toast? Pancakes?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned away from John, blanket covering his face eclipsing him from reality.
John rolled his eyes and pulled out his laptop.
"I'll take that as a 'no'."
AN/ I have been trying to re-edit these for a while. Again, sorry for any confusion!